


Fairytale of New York: A Winter Holiday Idol RPS

by lordnelson100



Category: American Idol RPF, Enchanted (2007)
Genre: Christmas, Crossover, Multi, New York City
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-25
Updated: 2009-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-09 03:56:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/82799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lordnelson100/pseuds/lordnelson100
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They have cars big as bars, they have rivers of gold, but New York City's no fairytale. Magic plays havoc with some American Idols on a snowy Manhattan eve.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fairytale of New York: A Winter Holiday Idol RPS

"Nark," said David Cook. "Wark, wark wark."

"It really doesn't sound like quack, does it?" said Kris Allen with a furrowed brow. "Same problem with bow wow wow or neigh. Where do those conventions come from, anyway?"

"Oh gosh, I really think we have bigger problems right now!" said David Archuleta. "Like how do we turn them back!"

Cook-as-Duck gave Archie a sympathetic look from one tiny round eye, as if to say, _Don't panic, kid_!

  
"Oh dear, oh dear!" cried Princess Giselle. "Back in Andalasia I have no trouble understanding the woodland creatures! It's one of the biggest drawbacks of the kingdom of Manhattan altogether! Poor little Pip had such a terrible time here. Perhaps . . . perhaps if I sing them a song, they'll each be able to open their hearts and tell us what the trouble is!"

"Fuck God, no, honey," growled Neal Tiemann (and Kris was pretty sure Archie's hair literally stood on end). "I need my goddamn lead singer back, not a fucking avian psychotherapy session. I don't give a shit what's in his heart, just magic his ass back into shape in time for our gig."

Kris tried to interrupt, tell the guy to watch his language, only suddenly he found he was stamping his -- WTF? hoof?!! Swiveling his head (which suddenly felt really weird) to look in the mirror, he thought, _Oh great!_

Apparently, he was now a really adorable pony. And where Archie was standing a second ago lay curled a small orange cat.

"Worse and worse!" cried Giselle.

Kris couldn't help thinking it was all Adam's fault. He turned to glare at Adam, knocking over a lamp with his swishing tail, and of course, Swan-Adam chose that moment to open his enormous wings, beating them in a fury of snowy feathers and pumping his graceful, curving neck.  Everything in the luxury suite not nailed down, and not knocked over yet, went flying. "Adam! Stop being such a drama queen!" Kris wanted to say. But it came out: "Neeeeeiiigggh."

  
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

  
Earlier that day.

Central Park was a cold and lovely ink drawing: white snow, black tree trunks, a thousand shades of gray among the sky and frozen pond and tall ornate towers at the Park's edge. Adam and Kris wandered without a plan, one tree-lined path winding into another.

Adam was wearing this wonderful endless white silk scarf that trailed behind him in the wind, and a long narrow black coat with a tall collar, and shiny black made-of-money boots that were probably never meant to touch snow, and of course, no hat 'cause of the hair, and stupid thin little gloves with metal rivets in them that were probably conducting cold right onto Adam's skin.

Kris was wearing, well, Kris-wear, which meant he forgot it as soon as he put it on, but at least it was practical. A red and black-checked L.L. Bean jacket and a flannel shirt and a wool beanie and mittens and work boots, and somehow the whole outfit had made Adam say "Oh! Adorable!" and Kris said, "WHAT, it's winter out there," and Adam had burst into a high, bell-like peal of laughter. At Kris's look of chagrin, Adam had kissed him on the cheek, which made Kris blush and Adam laugh more.

And then Adam had dragged them out into the Park. With their albums out and their tours going, they hardly ever saw each other, and there was the phone, but it wasn't the same, and Kris had _so_ looked forward to the few hours they would have together, before they needed to head down to Rockefeller Center and the NBC studios. Like, looked forward to it so much it was maybe creepy.

But here was Adam racing along on his long legs and not even talking, even though his face was exactly the face he made when he needed to talk, and Kris was almost trotting to keep up, and to top it all off, Adam was clearly freezing in his gorgeous, useless outfit. His arms were crossed tight across his chest and his hands balled up and he looked so cold it hurt to see it.

Suddenly Kris couldn't bear it any more. "Stop," he said. "Just, hold up." And they stopped in the middle of the icy path, and Kris peeled off the unhelpful gloves that were failing at protecting Adam's hands, and he took off his own mittens and shoved them in his pockets. And he took Adam's hands in his own and rubbed them and rubbed them and blew on them till they felt warm again. "There. You are driving me crazy," he said in exasperation, and Adam looked at him helplessly and said in an odd voice, "I'm driving YOU crazy?"

Suddenly, a little old man in a ragged purple cape stepped from behind an enormous snow-covered bush. For a second, Kris thought he was some homeless guy, and he slapped his pocket looking for change, but then the guy was tossing something on them -- like silver dust, huge handfuls of glinting silver dust that arced through the air and mixed with the fat white snowflakes that were starting to fall.

And that's when Adam turned into a swan.

  
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Kris was back at their impossibly overpriced and snobbish hotel, and things were not going well.

He had a cab waiting with a swan inside it.

He was not sure what his next step was.

Skidding into the hotel lobby on the vast and slippy marble floors, he saw a vaguely familiar figure. A big muscular tattooed dude with a white duck under his arm.

Looming over a tiny, flustered-looking desk clerk in a fancy uniform with shiny buttons, who was gesturing in evident protest.

"It's my service animal. For asthma attacks," Neal Tiemann said without expression, around a cigarette hanging from his big pierced mouth.

"Sir, you can't smoke that in here!" Another uniform bustled up in horror.

Kris slipped up to Neal, tapped him on one bracelet-heavy massive arm. "Uh, hi! You're David Cook's guitarist, right? Don't know if you recall, we met this summer at the Central Park concert, the GMA?"

"Dude. I know who you are for Chrissake. The guy Dave passed his prom queen crown onto--"

The hotel staff were staring and flailing meanwhile, one trying to pipe up, "we CANNOT allow farm ANIMALS, even for celebrities--", another whispering loudly, "but if he's DISABLED!"

Neal continued, oblivious, "Congrats on your song kicking it up the charts, man. Like the message. Mortality, which we all should--" Neal tried to switch his duck under his other arm to better shove off an intrusive security guard, which drew an indignant noise from the duck, and one from the security guard, too.

"Thanks, man, but listen, I'm having a bit of a crisis right now, and I'm wondering if you all and I might be, uh, sharing a problem--"

"Don't think so," said Neal.

Just then an indignant taxi driver stuck his head in the lobby doors, "Look mister, do you want this fucking swan or what? Because the New York police are gonna ticket my ass, American Idol or no, so I gotta move it--"

"Or maybe yes," said Neal.

"I know, right?" Kris, with a consoling head-shake, as he crossed over to the irate cabby and peeled off twenty-dollar bills.

The hotel staff had barely started to protest anew at the enormous live swan being led into through their doors on the end of Kris's scarf, when all of a sudden, David Archuleta arrived, also skidding on the wet and shiny lobby floor, and a pretty girl with golden red hair and freckles. As if this were not odd enough, they were carrying a birdcage with a small, plaintive songbird perched inside.

"Oh dear, oh dear! We're too late!" said the girl.

"Gosh!" says Archie. "Cook! And Adam, too?" looking from one to the other shouting figure in the now chaotic lobby.

"Oh, I hate to do this, but--" the red-headed girl took out a big --"Is that a wand? For real?" asked Kris and it was, with a glittery star on the tip and everything. She waved it. Everybody froze, except Kris, Neal, the birds, and the two newcomers.

"Okay guys? We need to get out of sight in one of your rooms? So could you grab your, uh, friends, and we'll talk there? We kind of need to hurry 'cause the holdonaminute spell won't last. Um, please." Archie being all bossy and apologetic at the same time, thought Kris, was cute, if not exactly confidence-inspiring.

  
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

  
"That's really Carrie Underwood?" Kris asked. The bird was delicate and pretty-looking, gray with a peachy breast and an impossibly long, forked tail. "She's a what now?"

"Scissor-tailed fly catcher, I reckon, " murmured Tiemann. At their look of surprise, he shrugged: "State bird of Oklahoma." The bird called sadly and Giselle gave a sympathetic "oh!" and opened the door to the cage.

Flicking its sweeping tail, the bird fluttered around the room, and finally landed on a lamp. Then it hopped down to Cook the duck, who bobbed his head shyly and made a series of small putting sounds. The delicate bird sort of nestled up against him, and the duck lowered its head and then they were touching bills and fluffing up and looking--very cosy.

"Is that even right? They aren't the same species," said Kris, and suddenly the swan at his side butted his hand and gave him a very expressive look. It suddenly occurred to him how unfair this all was for Adam, who had one of the coolest voices anywhere, and loved to talk as well as sing with it, and yet had been transfigured into a creature with no real sound to it. He reached out and stroked Adam's head. Wow. Swan feathers were really, really soft.

"At least the visual is right. You look good as as swan, man. Very stylish," he said consolingly.

Neil took his cigarette out of his mouth long enough to mutter: "A duck's more practical, anyway.  More . . . down to earth. Organic." Cook looked up from his song-bird snogging long enough to tip his bill at Tiemann.

"I think he looks sort of cute," said Archie, shyly. "And Carrie's so pretty!"

Kris, annoyed: "It's not a CONTEST, okay? Can we get on with solving this thing?"

God, Idol people. Always with the competition. You'd think they'd get it out of their system.

  
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

"And that's how I KNEW he really loved me," said Giselle, who was equal parts endearing and annoying, Kris decided.

"So you were a magic princess from some crazy-ass fairytale kingdom, till you wandered into our fallen and disillusioned world, but found happiness anyway?" said Neal, pointing the cigarette at her, and then at Archie: "And so were you?"

"Um, yes?" Archie answered, stubbing a toe into the fancy carpet and looking down. "Well, a prince, in my case. Only there wasn't so much dragons and romance things in my story as Giselle's. I fell through when I was like twelve, and couldn't get back, and this nice family in Utah took me in, and we decided to say I was Mormon so people wouldn't be surprised at all the stuff I didn't know."

"Clever," said Tiemann.

"Your family really isn't Mormon, though?" said Kris.

"My dad?" said Archie, simply.

"Gotcha," said Neal. "It kind of explains a lot."

"And I tried to fit in, really, but I was always randomly breaking into song, and stuff, I mean it was hard for me not to, so my dad, I mean my adoptive dad, got these ideas about Star Search and Idol and, and--here I am! And then Giselle happened to come to that concert I did in Central Park the other summer, and she kind of clued in . . ."

"It was the chorus of frogs and turtles doing water ballet to "Crush" that made me guess . . ." said Giselle.

" . . . And we've kept in touch by Twitter ever since! And since all of us are in town for the big concert, we were supposed to get together, and we were having cocoa in the hotel coffee shop--"

"That's when we saw him!"

"Saw who?"

"The evil wizard, of course!" Giselle said, the _duh_ seemingly implicit. "Well, he's not so much evil as greedy and not so competent. Got thrown out of the Magic Federation back home for paying people in fake gold coins that turned back to dung later. Now he does spells for hire in your world."

"There was this fuss outside with a limo, and a whole bunch of folks running around yelling that Carrie Underwood had disappeared . . ." Archie waved his hands in illustration. "And the wizard was hanging out in the lobby and then he spotted me and came charging over, talking about how he was going to take out all the undeserving Idols and leave just one powerful master . . ."

"Sounded just like my almost-step-mother-in-law, the Queen Nerissa . . ."

"Why do they do that, anyway? Storybook villains? I mean, just go ahead and blurt out what they're up to?" Kris wondered aloud.

Archie and Giselle both looked at him reproachfully. "It's _traditional_."

And so after the lengthy explanations, they were just getting back to the problem-solving part when the spell seemed to get its second wind, and Archie and Kris got spell-struck too.

"This day ain't getting any better," said Neal.

  
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

So it was fortunate that at this moment of peril, there was a buzz on the hotel room phone, and the front desk asked if they could send up Mister Giselle (who apparently was called Robert), and when Robert entered, he had in his briefcase a magic scroll that talked aloud and answered many mysteries, including who hired the wizard-hit (some fellow in North Carolina named Clay, who evidently had far too much time on his hands, Giselle sniffed) and also how to fix it. She and Archie had sent Robert off to find the scroll while they gathered the endangered singers, a detail they'd forgotten to explain in all the hubbubb.

But Giselle's brow was still furrowed. "They have to find their True Love's Kiss? Oh my! But that could be quite difficult! Why people go on quests and travel miles and miles and there's rescues and still sometimes they don't find who . . ."

"Hang on, my mistake!" Robert interrupted. "Doesn't have to the real True Love's Kiss.  Just says 'a kiss of real affection and enduring friendship.' Only the catch is, each kiss will only break _one_ enchantment."

Suddenly there was a piercing trilling sound and a beating of wings, and a tiny, lovely blond woman was standing in the room, golden hair spilling down her back. "Why, David Cook!" she said, looking down at the duck, who looked a little abashed--as much as a duck could, anyway.

Then the duck duck-walked over to the small orange cat, eliciting a gentle purr, and there was some awkward butting of bill and whiskered snout, and suddenly, David Archuleta was back in the room, staring around with startled great eyes.

"Whelp. Third time's the charm I hope," grunted Tiemann. He picked up the white duck and held it at eye level, giving it some serious eyeball action, and then at last dived in to plant a long, fierce kiss on its lips, or rather bill. Except that suddenly there was a large, scruffy rock singer where the duck had been. "Thanks, Neal!" Cook said, happily. 'Anytime, Dave," his guitarist said, and suddenly grinned, a big mouthful of white teeth that made his plain, stoic face look sort of hot.

Just about then, the swan was gracefully reaching up its head to the soft muzzle of the pony. Kris felt a funny flash of oddness pass over him, just like in the Park, and all at once, Adam was standing there, long-limbed and pale and black-crested in his handsome, everyday form.

Kris was still a pony. It was so good to see Adam himself again, and Kris tried, really tried, to be happy for everyone else. Against his will, though, his ears drooped, and he hung his pony head.

"Oh, but Kris!" says Archie, worried.

"We'll fix him! Every ill enchantment has an end, if you just believe, and try hard enough," cried Giselle, but everyone else was looking anxiously at each other. The big show was only a few hours away now, and with it a hundred handlers and questions to answer, and here they all were with an inexplicable pony in a fancy hotel room overlooking Central Park, and no this year's American Idol.

"Wait," said Adam. "Hang on." He approached Kris again, put a hand in his mane, stroking the long shaggy locks, looking into the big chesnut eyes. "Did you try to make that happen? To fix me first? Dammit, Kris!" And he bent in, whispering in Kris' pointed, delicate ear so that his warm breath made it twitch, "Sometimes you make me_ crazy_," and then he kissed the pony's forehead. And suddenly, human Kris was standing in Adam's arms, one of Adam's big hands tangled in his hair. Adam kissed Kris' smooth brow again and hugged him to him, so that Kris's face was planted in Adam's broad chest, just like of old, on the long-ago Idol show.

Except that they were naked. Kris suddenly found he needed not to turn around in front of the others. Adam was talking over his shoulder anyway, smugly: "You said each kiss only breaks one spell. Didn't say there couldn't be more then one kiss!"

It sunk in that they were all back to normal, now, except no clothes.

Carrie gave a sort of a squeak and nipped behind a velvet curtain, only she still peeked her head out, and her eyes seemed to sort of rove over to Cook, who blushed deep pink from the roots of his hair to his--well. Neal snickered, and handed him a sofa pillow. David Archuleta, backing away with one hand over his eyes and knocking into various furnishings, locked himself in the bathroom, then unlocked the door and handed out some towels.

  
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Luckily Robert and Giselle called in some favors--less the magic kind, more the powerful Manhattan attorney and chic boutique owner with all the right friends kind--and soon everyone was dressed and primped and headed up to the studio on time.

As they crossed the wintery sidewalk at Rockefeller Center, piling out of two or three taxis, Adam grabbed Kris' hand and began to sing at the top of his lungs, startling the rushing commuters and bewildered tourists and jaded New Yorkers standing about.

"They've got cars big as bars  
They've got rivers of gold,"

And the others laughed and protested, but Cook joined in too, and Tiemann, and Kris:

"But the wind goes right through you  
It's no place for the old!"

Then Giselle and Archie shrugged and harmonized--not really their type of song, but eternally game--and apparently there was still a little left over spell-magic wafting about, because suddenly all along the entire block, hot dog sellers in gritty half-gloves and policemen in orange vests, and Somalian taxi-drivers springing from their yellow cabs, and hurrying businessmen stopping in their tracks, were singing, too.

"When you first took my hand  
On a cold Christmas Eve  
You promised me  
Broadway was waiting for me!"

The lights on the towering Plaza Christmas tree began to blink in time to the music, Rockettes in red jackets and fancy hats and stocking came high-kicking out of Radio City Music Hall, brightly-clad skaters ran up from the skating rink, silver skates around their neck and mittens waving, executives and badly-dressed comedy writers popped out of offices and turned handstands.

"You were handsome  
You were pretty  
Queen of New York City  
When the band finished playing  
They howled out for more  
Sinatra was swinging,  
All the drunks they were singing  
We kissed on a corner  
Then danced through the night!"

The singers and friends quit here, while they were still ahead, and the song was still happy, and passed through the doors to their next show. And the snow fell on New York.﻿


End file.
